Webs We Weave
by Fic Fairy
Summary: Holby City. Sequel to Lost Souls. Following her encounter with Martha Connie thinks she's moved on with her life, thanks to her baby and the 'new' man in her life. But Martha isn't prepared to give up that easily.
1. Chapter 1

**Webs We Weave**

I fall in love with my daughter the first second I clap eyes on her. Like all expectant mothers, I've heard the hype; the warm glow, the overwhelming sense of maternal love, but I thought it was just that. Hype. Never for one second did I expect to feel it as I do when Sam places her in my arms.

Ah yes, I know what you're thinking. Sam. What the hell is he doing here? Why am I not at The Haddlington as I'd planned, on the receiving end of a 'too posh to push' C-Section without outside interference from Holby colleagues and former lovers? Well, the fact of the matter is that things didn't quite go to plan as my pregnancy progressed. In fact, pretty much all the decisions I made when I discovered I was pregnant went right out of the window.

And it's all thanks to Martha.

---

As I walked away from the Hope household the morning after our… liaison, I really did draw a line under the whole experience. It wasn't an unpleasant one, don't get me wrong. As Martha herself had said, I enjoyed being comforted, loved the sensation that someone cared about me, and the sex itself was satisfying in a way that I'd never imagined intimacy with another woman could be, but it had to end there. Our situations were such that they would never have been conducive to us having a productive and healthy relationship, even if we'd wanted one. And I didn't. I had my life carved out for me and there was no room for Martha in it.

I know how horribly clinical I must sound, but as far as I was concerned that was how clear cut the situation was. Had to be.

Unfortunately for me, I reckoned without Martha. I suppose it was to be expected in a way. She was young and vulnerable and I'd shown her some kindness – I guess it was only naturally that she didn't want to let it go.

Let me go.

The first I knew of it was a couple of weeks after that fateful night when I turned up at work one morning to find her sat on my desk in a nurses uniform, her hair in pigtails and a Santa hat on her head. I'm sure to most hot blooded males she'd have been a walking wet dream, but to me she symbolised my worst nightmare. I'd done my best to put her behind me, the last thing I needed was her thrust back into my line of vision looking not only every inch a lesbian Lolita, but staring at me like I was all her Christmas' come at once.

I did my best not to react. Just busied myself taking off my coat and the like and then, when I'd seated myself at my desk finally asked the question she was obviously waiting for,

"What are you doing here?"

"Dad got me a volunteer post on Darwin. I want to go into medicine." She smiled an eager to please little girl smile that made me want to cut off my own hands for ever having touched her, "Like you."

Even in that moment I knew that her sudden interest in medicine had nothing to do with wanting to be like me and everything to do with wanting to be with me – and there was no way I could ever allow that to happen. All the same though, I couldn't bring myself to be cruel to her. It never occurred to me to tell her to get the hell off of my patch and out of my life. Instead, I smiled, kindly, and told her I hoped she enjoyed the experience and that I was looking forward to working with her.

Nothing, in fact, could have been further from the truth. It's one thing having a one night stand with an 18 year old girl, but its something else entirely having to work with her day in day out, particularly with her father there to watch over us the whole time. The whole thing was completely uncomfortable from the word go, as if my life on the ward wasn't complicated enough. Whichever way I turned I was greeted by either Martha, all big smiles and innocent looking, yet inappropriate feeling touches; or Sam who wanted nothing more than to kick my head in for refusing to let him into our baby's life.

Happy Christmas to me.

Things came to ahead at the staff Christmas party. I hadn't wanted to attend in the first place, the prospect of being surrounded by a motley collection of drunks while being forced to remain stone cold sober not appealing anyway, without the added complications. However, as I sat in my office, playing at being Scrooge, Elliot, of all people decided that I needed saving from my own misery and dragged me along before I could argue.

It was your average 'office party' – a healthy mix of nurses dirty dancing, doctors getting it on with people they shouldn't, and hospital cleaners trying to convince the pharmacy staff that they're neurosurgeons, all topped off with an explosion of tinsel and mistletoe.

I was hiding in one corner, orange juice in hand, trying to look completely inconspicuous when I first saw her slinking towards me, and if having her around the ward as a little girl playing dress up was hard, that night was even harder.

She looked stunning.

Not for her a skimpy skirt and too much cleavage. Not for her a cheap look that could found in any tacky nightclub on a Friday night. She was dressed like a woman. A smart and sophisticated woman. Everything that we both knew she really wasn't.

Words can not explain what she did to me with that look. I suspect it was put together entirely with me in mind and bloody hell she hit the target. For the first time in my entire life I wanted a woman, wanted to make love to a woman – if I'd had less self control I'd have done it, right there in the hospital function room with everyone watching.

But I couldn't. I knew that. It wouldn't have been right for her, for Elliot, for my baby or for me. None of us were at places in our lives where a relationship between Martha and I would be a good thing, quite the opposite in fact. It had the potential to devastate and ruin lives.

Not that that detracted from what I was feeling, the feelings of desire that were pulsing through me that from the smile on her face were obviously clearly evident on mine. I wanted her, and she knew it.

So I did the only thing I could.

I provided her with the ultimate sign, not to mention kick in the teeth. I reached out, grabbed the arm of the nearest man, and asked him to dance.

No prizes for guessing who.

As he tells it, he had no wish to dance with me, and I in all honesty don't blame him. After way I'd treated him I'd have thought being on the same continent as me would have been too much for him, let alone the same dance floor. But he did see a window of opportunity, and took the chance to do the one thing I'd long since denied him.

He talked to me. Appealed to me. Pleaded his case. Told me how much he wanted to play a part in our child's life, and, if I'd let him, a part of mine.

Was it what I wanted? Not particularly. Good looking boy, horny little devil but not the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with but as my eyes met Martha's over his shoulder I knew it was the only legitimate answer. It was the only way that I, and indeed she, would ever be able to move on.

I closed my eyes, kissed him, and sealed the deal.

Martha was my past. Sam was my future.

And now the baby is the icing on the cake.

---


	2. Chapter 2

**Webs We Weave**

**Part 2**

"Are you alright sweetheart?" Sam breaks into my thoughts as he strokes my hair gently, "You've gone very quiet. What are you thinking?"

I nod slowly, buying myself time, since I know the last thing I can tell him is what was actually running through my head – I don't think that the untold Ballad of Martha and I is one he needs to share. Instead I stare down at my beloved daughter,

"I'm sorry," I say, my eyes fixed firmly on her, "I'm just so overwhelmed. This is all so new to me."

I feel an arm slip round my shoulder, "It's alright." He tells me gently, "It's an overwhelming experience for me too, and its bound to be more so for you, it's your first time."

The reminder that he's been through all this before, and that he lost contact with the child in question, is another hefty reason why Martha has been condemned to be nothing more than a past fling. Over the last few months, as he and I have got to know each other properly I've come to understand how much his estrangement from his son hurts him. I couldn't do that to him again. We have to make this work.

It occurs to me, as he continues to hug me, that there's something very wrong with the amount of time I spend thinking about her. She pops into my head so very frequently, and while it's often unsettled me, now that I'm here with Sam and our child, it's not just unsettling but also very wrong.

I can't keep letting her interfere. I have to concentrate on my family.

And so, I push all thoughts aside and finally look up at Sam,

"What are we going to call her?"

He smiles, "I thought that was set in stone. As I recall you've been adamant about it from the word go."

It's true, and yet now I'm not sure. I chosen the name long before he and I got together and I feel somewhat guilty at not allowing him any input. I offer him the chance to change it though, and he won't hear of it.

"It's a beautiful name." He remarks, "For a very beautiful girl." He grins at me with a charming and cheeky grin that I am in little doubt has charmed a number of women into falling in love with him over the years, and of which I am, I keep telling myself, the latest victim. "She looks just like her mum."

I smile myself then, "She looks like Winston Churchill Sam. All new babies do."

---

We spend the evening getting to know our daughter. Sam, it transpires, is a natural with babies and I don't think I do so badly myself – the love I feel for her completely obliterating any fears I have about doing things wrongly. It feels a little weird at first, especially since when I first fell pregnant I never imagined Sam would be at my side at this point, but he is and that's something I find myself quickly getting used to, until I reach the point where I can't imagine his not being there.

Which is why, when my Consultant comes to throw him out, I find myself weeping a few tears as I don't want him to leave.

It would have been an odd feeling. Once upon a time.

"Darling," Sam says, when my Consultant leaves, "he has a point. You need to rest. You're exhausted."

I nod, conceding on the issues because I am exhausted. No matter what they try to tell you, giving birth is no walk in the park – it's draining both physically and emotionally. He offers to stay until I'm asleep but I decline, at least in part because I want some time on my own with my daughter before I go to sleep, but also because I'm not a five year old.

He has one last cuddle – with her, and one last kiss – with me, and then leaves, only stopping at the door to wave at me,

I wave back, "Goodnight Mr Strachan."

Hearing me use my favourite term of endearment for him he smiles, knowing full well what I expect to come next.

He doesn't disappoint.

"Goodnight Mrs Strachan."

---

We married in February. Valentines Day infact. Horribly cliché I know, but I didn't get much of a say in it since I knew nothing about it until the big day. Sam organized the whole thing, and the first inkling I had was when I was paged, asked to go to the hospital chapel and arrived there to find Sam waiting there in a full morning suit.

I went completely fucking mental.

I don't know which part of his plan irritated me the most. The fact he was arrogant enough to believe that I would marry him without him even asking, or the way he organized the whole day without asking me for input.

Mind you, he always was an impulsive prat.

Anyway, just as he was wondering if he might have to call off the guests who were due to arrive an hour later, he dropped the bombshell which changed my mind.

He broke down. Told me he was scared I was going to leave him. Broke it to me that he was convinced that there was someone else.

Direct quote, "I don't know where your head and heart have been for the last six weeks but they've not been with me. I get the feeling you want to be with someone else – I don't know who, but this was the only thing I could think of to stop you leaving me."

Touching I know. Heartrendering really. But that's not why I married him. I married him to prove that it wasn't true. I didn't want someone else. I didn't want Martha.

It's no reason for marrying someone, that I know, but I think I was running scared at that point. It had been a difficult six weeks, punctuated by 'incidents' with Martha, who although taking the hint and making no further move on me insisting on acting like my long lost best friend. Every time I turned round she was there – with coffee in the morning, a sandwich at lunchtime, patient notes, a hug when I lost a patient. It was all very 'nice' but I was worried about the undertones. And even more so I was worried that I was getting to rely on her too much.

I was worried where it was all going to lead.

And so I accepted his proposal, and an hour later, in a wedding with all the trimmings I married him. If I hadn't still been seething at having the control taken from me I would have been impressed at everything he'd pulled together in such a short space of time.

A dress. Flowers. Guests. A reception. A bridesmaid.

This is where the irony starts. After I'd accepted Sam said he had to go and give all our guests the good news and suggested I go to my office to get changed. I did so, and that was where I found the gorgeous, if not a little 'meringue' like gown he'd chosen for me, along with Martha, resplendent in burgundy satin looking completely uncomfortable.

"That's a bridesmaids dress." I murmured, considering the sight of her in it to be one shock too many, hence the fact I'd been reduced to completely stating the obvious.

She nodded awkwardly, "I'm sorry. Sam wouldn't take no for an answer."

She had my every sympathy. I knew exactly how she felt.

"But why?"

She sighed, "He said he's seen us together a lot recently. He said I was obviously your right hand girl these days and so I should be at your wedding too." She looked at me, the same desperate look in her eyes that I'd seen when I'd tried to reject her that first night, "You're not really going to go through with this are you?"

I started to undo my jacket, not wanting to look at her, not wanting to give into that look a second time, "Can you help me into my dress please?"

She grabbed my arm furiously, halting my undressing in my tracks, "You can't do this Connie. I know you and I are a big no-no but you don't love him. Don't do this to yourself just to prove a point."

"I have to." I said softly, not looking at her because I knew that everything she was saying was true, "I have a responsibility now, to my baby, and to Sam. Please," I pulled away from her and went over to the gown hanging on the back of the door, "let it go. Let me go."

I tried to concentrate on getting undressed but nothing could block out the sound of her crying behind me.

"What if I can't Connie?"

I grabbed the dress from the hanger and pulled it over my head, "You have to." I walked over to my full length mirror, stopping over briefly to dwell on the tremendous irony of the situation I found myself in, "Look Martha, if this is too much to you then go, I'll explain everything to Sam. I'll make something up." I glanced in the mirror and even inspite of the circumstances couldn't help giving a girlie swirl such as women are inclined to do when they step into a wedding dress.

Martha must have noticed because she stopped crying and smiled weakly, "I can't do that. Who'd do your dress up for you if I left." She came up behind me and slid my zip up my back, "You look so beautiful." I blushed at her words but she wouldn't let it go, "You do." She swallowed hard, "Sam's a lucky man. Now," she led me to my desk chair, "let's see if we can do something with your hair. I promised him I would."

She may have slipped a brave face into place, but I could see in her eyes how much she was hurting and could only begin to imagine how I'd have felt in her shoes.

"You don't have to do this." I said softly, reaching for her hand, wanting her to know that I understood.

She shook her head, "How could I leave you? I'm your right hand woman. I always will be."

I was touched by her determination and the maturity she was showing, but all the same her words worried me. Having a right hand woman was one thing but I didn't want her to get the wrong idea, and I needed to be sure she wasn't doing so.

"As my friend?"

She smiled, "Your best friend." But even as she spoke the words she was moving in to kiss me – an act I'd yearned for but knew deep in my heart I couldn't let her carry out. Not on the day of my wedding. I pulled back, went to ask her not to, but I didn't get chance.

"For old times sake," she brought her lips gently down on mine and allowed them to linger only momentarily before pulling them away, "before you become an old married woman and forget all about me."

I knew then, in those seconds, in that kiss, that that was never ever going to happen.


	3. Chapter 3

**Webs We Weave**

Chapter 3 

By noon the next day our private room resembles the interior of a particularly well-stocked florists come gift shop. In actual fact any visitor could be forgiven for thinking that I'm opening my very own satellite branch of the hospital shop. I don't kid myself its because anyone actually likes me but put it very firmly down to the fact that its common knowledge that I'm currently working on staff appraisals; and the fact that my first 3 visitors are Jac, Maria and Donna, bearing flowers, chocolates and a 3 foot pink cuddly bunny respectively would appear to be a case in point.

I'm working on the appraisals when Elliot arrives just after lunch. To my delight I'm managing to juggle both laptop and baby without causing too much damage to either, a metaphor I hope to extend throughout my daughter's life. I have no intention of becoming a stay at home wife and mother; it wouldn't be in my nature. Sam did try to make noises to that effect when we were first married but it only took my pointing out that his Registrars salary would in no way, shape or form keep me in the manner unto which I've become accustomed for him to see sense, albeit via a huge row, our first as a man and wife, in which he offered me the opportunity of cutting off his testicles with a steak knife.

I declined, although he was being such a sanctimonious little prick that in all honesty it could have gone either way. Still, no one ever said marriage was easy, and I should know – I endured married life with Michael.

Digression aside, while I'm thrilled by my attempts at playing the working mum, Elliot seems less impressed, blustering around me, desperately trying to extricate my laptop from the tight grip I have on it. I appreciate that he cares but quickly find his efforts irritating and don't hesitate to set him straight.

"Elliot." I say firmly, talking to him as I might an unruly, undisciplined 3rd year med student, "It's just a few little appraisals," A blatant lie as it happens – I'm on my 10th of the day, each several pages long – but he doesn't need to know that, "my baby," I continue, gesturing to the content looking little bundle in my arms, "is happy with me doing them, so why is it such a problem to you?"

He gives me the look that he's oft given me over the past few months. It's almost fatherly in its nature and seems to contain an unhealthy mix of disapproval and concern which to be honest, if I didn't find so amusing, would possibly leave me feeling rather disconcerted.

"The problem is not with the baby." He says sternly, reminding me again of someone's father although admittedly not my own on the grounds he wasn't drunk and beating my mother, "It's with you Connie." He takes my typing hand in his to stop me in my tracks, "You look exhausted."

I shake his hand, and his concern away, "I'm fine Elliot; I've never been better." And although I am tired, it's true. With my baby in my arms I feel more content than I have done in a long time. I feel complete, as if she's what has been missing all my life, and in all honesty she probably is.

All the same though, I wait for Elliot to argue with me and am somewhat relieved when he doesn't, instead stepping back and looking at me, as if seeing me for the first time. Then, he smiles,

"Well it does suit you." He concedes finally, "Baby, laptop and all." I'm suddenly very aware that there are tears in his eyes and when he speaks again, I understand why, "Gina said it would be good for you. She was convinced."

I feel teary myself then, touched that the friend I'd made all so briefly, had had so much faith in me, faith that in truth, I hadn't at that point had in myself.

It seems like a fitting moment to tell him my daughter's name, but when I do so I fear its too much for him as he looks like he's about to crumple completely and so I gently propel my daughter into his arms, to act as a distraction as much as anything. I know if he breaks down now I'm likely to follow suit.

"Go on Gina, go to uncle Elliot."

She takes to him instantly, far quicker than I ever did, proving that Gina Hope Strachan is a far better judge of character than her mother will ever be, and we fall into a scene of cosy domesticity as we chat while he cradles her, and I sneakily start work on my appraisals again, taking advantage of the fact I now have two hands available to me rather than one.

It's so cosy in fact that I find it easy to forget that there are, in fact, serious issues between Elliot and I; deeply hidden secrets that run a serious risk of imploding our relationship should they ever come to light, and its only as he hands Gina back to me as he's about to leave that it all comes flooding back to me as a result of an innocent comment he makes.

"I bet Martha adores her."

I say nothing at first, shaken in the first instance purely by the mention of his daughter's name, and then as I realise that for all the visitors I have had, she has been notable in her absence. I suppose I ought not be surprised – I can't say I'd be queuing up to see the child of a former lover, but at the same time given her alleged status as my best friend I can't help feeling disappointed that she wasn't first in line to visit me.

Elliot must notice my less than positive reaction because he immediately draws the correct conclusion, "Has she not been in?"

I shake my head but offer nothing more, not keen to let him see how hurt I am but that must be pretty clear anyway given the way I quickly find his arm wrapped round my shoulder,

"I'm sure she'll pop by later." He says reassuringly, "It is very busy on the ward today."

"And yet you still managed to get here." I regret the words the second they're out of my mouth – I sound like a petulant five year old which in itself is bad enough, but if Martha gets wind of my mood questions will indeed be asked. I force a smile, trying desperately to dilute the comment and convince Elliot that he doesn't need to drag Martha kicking and screaming to my bedside.

Some hope.

---

She arrives that evening, her arrival announced by Sam who takes great pleasure in it, much to my – and I suspect her – abject horror.

"Ah, the babysitter, how marvellous!" Unaware of me cringing at his side he continues happily, "Have you come to get acquainted with 'the charge'?" He looks at me, and apparently looks right through the horrified expression on my face, "Hand her over darling, we need to get this one trained up."

There is no real answer I can offer and so I just let him take Gina from my arms, and dump her on Martha who appears to be as tempted to smack him as I am. On a scale of 1 to awkward the scenario ranks right up there with the bridesmaid fiasco and an evening on the ward when he saw fit to ask her if she fancied coming home with us for a threesome – an innocent joke on his part obviously, but a joke too far all the same.

Only my darling Gina, who, almost as if I'd trained her for it, woos Martha with a kick of her legs and a happy gurgle, saves the situation. The atmosphere, such as it was, fades near instantly as she undoes all the damage her daddy has caused, wrapping Martha around her little finger in a manner than even impresses me, a grand mistress in the art of finger wrapping.

"She's so beautiful." Martha murmurs, glancing in my direction as she does so and bashing me over the head with a metaphorical guilt stick as it becomes obvious to me that she's on the verge of tears. I try to stay hard to it, but fail miserably and soon, much to Sam's amusement I've got tears streaking my cheeks too.

"What is wrong with you two?" He asks, rolling his eyes in mock despair, "I mean at least she," he nods in my direction, "can blame the hormones," he turns to Martha who now isn't on the verge of tears so much as in floods, "what's your excuse?"

Martha blushes, lost for words, and since I suspect her 'excuse' revolves around unspoken issues that she's in no hurry to share with my husband I leap to her defence,

"It's a girl thing darling."

He grins, a cynical expression on his face, "A girl thing eh?"

I nod. It is, after all, one way to describe the situation between Martha and I, not that I'm about to see fit to give him all the details. He's obviously convinced though because he rises from his chair, "Right then, I'll leave you to your 'girl thing' and go and find myself some dinner." He looks at Martha and smiles, "Oi, Cry-baby, look after them my girls for me…"

---


End file.
